Along Came a Duke (14 page)

The pair that had been so perfectly matched and steady just moments ago balked, sending the curricle rocking.

Preston pulled them to a stop and rose up. “Away, you mongrel! Get aw—”

Stopped in midword, Preston gaped at the hound teasing his horses.

Mr. Muggins?

The dog barked at Preston, as if in happy greeting, and then ran around the carriage and back under the horses' hooves—once again sending his previously well-mannered cattle dancing in their traces. The jolt bounced Preston back into his seat.

Beside him Roxley clung to the rail. “Where the devil did that beast come from? Looks bloody familiar. Got the manners of an Irish pugilist.”

The duke ignored the double wallop his heart did in his chest as he looked up to find a trio of misses dashing in anything but a ladylike fashion up the Row, shouting something.

And the one in front was carrying a lead—but it was her determined stride and tumble of red curls escaping the confines of her bonnet that held his attention.

Tabby.

Then to his horror, the demmed foolish chit dashed right up toward his now unmanageable horses, scolding as she went. “Sir, your horses are about to trample my dog!”

Actually, they were about to trample her.

Preston would have liked to think that he was leaping down from his carriage for all the right reasons—to save Tabby from her own foolhardy nature—but that wasn't entirely true.

Nor was it to avoid the devil of a wigging Hen would give him if this vicar's daughter was harmed by his new horses.

Good heavens, Preston, is there no end to the scandal you can bring down on this house?!

Shoving the ribbons into Roxley's grasp, Preston leapt into the fray. Catching hold of the minx, he pulled Tabby out of harm's way and into his grasp.

No, it was for none of those reasons. For the moment she slammed into his chest, when his arms curled around those now familiar curves—which, he noted, no longer felt so desperately thin—and he looked down into those glorious (and right now furious) brown eyes, he realized the only person in danger of being trampled was him.

And he knew the real reason he'd leapt down from the curricle to pluck her from danger.

To have his Tabby back in his arms.

Chapter 7

O
 f all the men in London to find herself entwined with—rather, she corrected herself, to run into—why did it have to be him?

Preston
.

And just as handsome and rakish and irresistible as she recalled. Perhaps more so, if such a thing was possible.

His arms around her, her hands splayed across his chest, his warmth, his muscles surrounding her.

Her heart fluttered, her knees wavered. Oh, yes, just as irresistible.

“Sir, if you would . . . would . . .” Tabitha drew a steadying breath. “Unhand me,” she finally managed.

Then she glanced up—and what she saw in his expression stunned her. That same dangerous light in his eyes that had burned there after their kiss.

A possessive, hungry fire that had yet to go out.

“Tabby,” he said, ever so softly. Quiet enough that no one else heard.

But she did. That single, intimate name whispered down her spine and curled around her heart.

She was Tabby again, and he, her reckless, dangerous lover.

“A-hem,” Harriet coughed.

This prodded Tabitha's sensibilities into reminding her that this wasn't some private room in a wayside inn but the middle of London in the middle of the morning.

That, and she had no right to be this man's Tabby. Not now. Not ever again.

“You must let me go,” she told him, glancing over at the horses, which Roxley had managed to settle. Mr. Muggins sat obediently next to Preston, looking up with dark doggy eyes filled with adoration—not having forgotten the man's offerings of roast beef any more than Tabitha could escape the memories of Preston's kiss.

“Please,” she whispered, this time with a bit more urgency, glancing over at Daphne's scandalized expression.

“Yes, of course,” he said, setting her free and taking a slight step back. “Are you unharmed?”

She shook her head, despite the fact that she stood wavering in her boots. Unharmed? She supposed not. Unsettled? Entirely.

Daphne, her ever-intrepid friend, waded into the mire, having mistaken her friend's stricken expression. “Those beasts,” she began, pointing at Preston's horses, “are ill-mannered and obviously not well handled. Why, they nearly trampled my poor friend. No wonder you are prone to landing in the ditch.”

Preston, a beast of another sort, took her insult exactly as she'd intended—a sharp and hard thrust into his rather oversized pride. “Not well-handled—”

“Miss Timmons?” the other fellow in the carriage called down. “And Miss Dale?” He paused for a second longer as his gaze fell on Harriet. “Good heavens, Harry, is that you as well?”

“Lord Roxley!” Harriet exclaimed. “Lady Essex said you were out of town. When did you return?”

The earl coughed and then shot a panicked glance at Preston. “Just. Just returned,” he said. “Do you recall my friend, Preston?”

“Ah, yes,” Preston said, setting Tabitha aside hastily and making a short bow. “Miss Timmons, is it not? Of Kempton?” He glanced over his shoulder at Roxley as if he needed his friend's assurance that he had all the facts straight, his expression now masked to be utterly bland.

But with his back to her friends, he winked at her.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring the pang in her heart. No, he mustn't wink at her. Didn't he realize that it was impossible?

If only it wasn't,
a voice whispered inside her.
If only. . .

“I fear I must apologize for my appearance.” Roxley waved his hand over his jacket and waistcoat.

“Still in your evening clothes, my lord?” Harriet teased as she reached up to scratch one of the horses. “Out all night, I imagine. Wait until Lady Essex hears this.”

“No!” Tabitha, Preston and Roxley all said at once.

Daphne and Harriet gaped at the three of them, and Roxley rushed to fill the void. “Miss Hathaway, I would hope you could avoid mentioning this to my aunt. You know how she can be.” He grimaced and shuddered, making a great show of it.

Harriet grinned. “I think she will be ever so delighted to know you are close at hand.”

The earl blanched, and if he was already a bit worn from carousing all night, he looked positively ill at this cheery news.

“How do you like London, Miss Hathaway?” Preston asked, changing the subject.

“Not at all,” Harriet told him with her usual forthright honesty.

Preston laughed, and it made his handsome features even more engaging. “How is that?”

“Tabitha's aunt will not let us go anywhere—save shopping for her—”

“New gowns,” Tabitha blurted out to keep her friend from revealing too much. Suddenly she saw the real danger of this encounter—that either Daphne or Harriet would spill the soup.

“Yes, new gowns,” Harriet finished, glancing sideways at Tabitha.

“Well, I suppose you have business elsewhere,” Tabitha rushed in to say. “And we as well. We have . . . that is . . .” She struggled to come up with some sort of commitment that would require them elsewhere . . . now . . . nay, immediately . . . in fact they were late, and all she could think of was one thing.

“Dancing.” She nodded most emphatically. “Yes, we must go, for my aunt has hired a dancing master, and I fear we will be late. If you will excuse us.”

Daphne and Harriet gaped at her rush of words. And of course, Harriet wasn't one to be coaxed along.

“He isn't coming for hours, Tabitha,” she corrected. “Your aunt said he was to arrive at half past two.”

“A dancing master?” Preston asked.

Tabitha flinched and hoped the man wouldn't press further.

But of course he did. “Has this poor fellow been warned to bring extra boots, Miss Timmons? I fear for his toes if he is to teach you.” His brows rose in a big arch, as if he truly expected her to answer that.

Or worse yet,
explain it
.

But thankfully, or rather mercifully, fortuitously and blessedly, Roxley leapt into the conversation. “Dancing lessons? On this, the first sunny day in a sennight? Demmed waste of time when there is so much to see in London.”

“Exactly,” Harriet echoed. “I would like to see the elephant at the Tower. And go to Astley's. And the theater. And Vauxhall, though Lady Essex says it is an immoral place where no decent lady should venture.”

“Those all sound like the reasonable expectations on a visit to London,” Roxley agreed. “Save Vauxhall, perhaps.”

“Yes, but Lady Timmons, Tabitha's aunt, has forbidden us even those pleasures,” Harriet complained.

“Why is that?” Preston asked, his gaze fixed on Tabitha.

She wanted to groan. Why did this man have to be so perceptive? Why couldn't he be a bit more addle-pated like the earl?

“She fears Tabitha may run afoul of fortune hunters,” Harriet explained, and then realizing that perhaps she had said too much, her eyes widened.

“Fortune hunters?” Roxley exclaimed. Then after a moment of looking from one of them to the next, he laughed.

As did Preston. “Whatever do you have to fear from fortune hunters, Miss Timmons?” he asked. “I daresay it isn't as if you are here to trap a husband.”

Tabitha took a step back, for whatever could she say?

Harriet happily filled them in. “Tabitha has inherited a vast fortune from her uncle. She's quite the heiress now.”

The two men stilled, shock on both their faces. Roxley managed to find his tongue first. “Oh, that explains it all. Come to Town to find a husband, have you?”

No one found his ill attempt at humor funny.

“She is certainly not ‘hunting,' as you so crudely put it, my lord,” Daphne told the earl, coming forward and winding her hand around the crook of Tabitha's elbow. “Whyever should she, when Miss Timmons is already betrothed.”

“Daphne!” Tabitha exclaimed, her gaze flying to meet Preston's.

Then to her horror, she watched his eyes darken as the truth tumbled out in the open.

There it was one second—she was his Tabby—and then it was gone. She'd never be his Tabby again. Never know his kiss. Never discover why it was she couldn't stop thinking about that night with him.

“Betrothed?” he asked, in something like a hungry growl. “Is this true?”

It seemed to Tabitha that all of London paused, the city swirling around her in a dizzy whirl, as if awaiting her answer.

She couldn't speak, couldn't say anything. What would it matter to him? He'd teased her, tempted her and kissed her and then fled her company.
Now
her future happiness mattered to him?

Good heavens, she would never understand men at this rate.

“Of course it is true,” Harriet told him. “Why else would we have come to Town if it hadn't already been all arranged.”

“All this time?” Preston stepped back, staring at Tabitha as if he were seeing her for the first time.

And she knew what he was seeing. At least what he thought he was seeing. That she was one of those awful, lying London misses he so deplored.

“Why, Miss Timmons, I thought you eschewed marriage—men, for that matter—given your not so famous Curse of Kilton.” Sarcasm dripped from every word he spoke.

“Kempton,” all three of them corrected.

“Yes, the dreaded Curse of Kempton,” he acknowledged. “Destined to go mad as a banshee when you marry, isn't that right, Roxley?”

“Wouldn't catch me marrying one of you,” the earl said, before he hastily added, “though I mean no offense.”

“None taken,” Harriet replied.

“There is no curse,” Tabitha said.

“I should hope not for the sake of your betrothed,” Preston remarked. “I must ask, whatever caused this sudden change of heart? Love at first sight? Or has he stolen your virtue and is now being forced to the altar?”

He couldn't have said anything more terrible, and Tabitha's cheeks flamed.

“You are insufferable, sir,” Daphne exclaimed.

“I don't mean to be,” he told her, though his gaze never left Tabitha.

“I'll have you know, Miss Timmons's betrothed is a most excellent gentleman.” Daphne emphasized the last word so this Mr. Preston would know that her friend's future spouse was well above the likes of him. “He is well placed and no Tulip or Fribble like you, sir.”

Preston's hand rose to his heart. “Miss Dale, you wound me. I'll have you know, I never overdress. And if your friend is marrying some veritable icon of respectability, then I wish them both many happy returns. They will be well suited.”

Tabitha knew that if she had to look one more time into his dark gaze, she might burst into tears. And whatever for, she couldn't imagine.

She didn't care in the least what this bounder thought of her.

Oh, but she did. Ever so much.

All she could do was take a page from his example and turn on one heel to flee, but after a few steps, she realized Mr. Muggins wasn't following as he always did.

Rather the traitorous beast trotted along behind Preston.

“Come, Mr. Muggins!” she called out.

But the dog ignored her. Mr. Muggins didn't see any point in turning his nose up at a hand that offered roast beef.

Storming back, she fumbled with the lead as she tried to snap it back onto the dog's collar, but with her hands shaking so, it was nigh on impossible.

To her dismay, Preston reached over, took the lead from her and quickly snapped it onto the collar. “Go with her, boy,” he told the dog as he handed the lead to Tabitha.

As they made the exchange, their hands brushed together, and despite the fact that they both were wearing gloves, that moment of contact, that flash of electricity sprang between them—like it had when he'd surrendered her winnings in that foolish wager of theirs. It yanked Tabitha's gaze up to meet his as if he had commanded it.

He was furious with her. Furious. Angry. Hurt.

“Tabby! How could you?” he scolded quietly so no one else could hear.

But before she could explain . . . oh, bother, explain what? That this engagement wasn't her idea? That she didn't want to marry Mr. Reginald Barkworth? That she had no choice but to marry and gain her fortune or spend the rest of her life scrubbing the grates?

Yes, explain this to a man who took his pleasures and his freedom for granted. What would he know or understand of how pained this choice might be?

Preston spun away from her, as quickly as he had that night in the inn, and bounded back up into the high, safe confines of his phaeton.

“Good day, ladies,” he said, tipping his tall beaver hat. “Extend my deepest felicitations to your betrothed, Miss Timmons—I expect that by marrying you he will need them.” Then he flicked the reins and drove off.

“Oh!” Daphne gasped. “What an utterly wretched man!”

“And I thought my brothers were dreadful,” Harriet mused, adjusting her bonnet and tugging at her gloves.

“Precisely,” Daphne agreed. “Who is that man, Tabitha, that he can be so rude?”

“I have no idea,” she confessed. “But I find him utterly insufferable.”

“Insufferable he might be, but he can be as rude as he chooses,” Harriet said, stealing another glance at the departing carriage before they started back in the direction of the Timmonses' town house.

“Why do you say that, Harriet?” Daphne demanded. “That bounder Mr. Preston just insulted Tabitha. He has no right to be so rude.”

“He has every right in the world.” Harriet stared at them for a moment and then blinked. “Don't you know who he is?”

Tabitha and Daphne came to a stop, both of them puzzled by Harriet's question. No, it wasn't so much a question as it was a statement of disbelief.

Harriet huffed a big sigh and said, “He's Preston.” When this explanation warranted nothing more than continued blank stares from Daphne and Tabitha, the girl continued, “The one your cousins have been nattering on and on about.”